


Fifteen

by kalijean



Series: Arch to the Sky [7]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Family, Gen, Leaside (1971-1990)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-25
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1987: Renfield missed Myra more as each day passed, but he couldn't make himself apologize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifteen

Renfield spun on the ice, watching the blur of the world go by.

He was graceful there, though he didn't know it. There were many things he didn't know. A great many, according to his sister, and while he felt decidedly errant being out here and not with her, attempting to patch the matter up, attempting to placate her or prove himself to her or at least...

At least get that awful hurt look off her face.

...he couldn't make himself go back yet. The sound of his skates across the ice as he arched away from the spin was far less satisfying, in this mood.

The man was not good enough for his sister. He simply was not; Renfield may have been something of a sheltered fifteen year old, but he knew a sketchy possibility when he saw one. The man was too young for her, for a start. Too young, too... too...

Renfield didn't know. But this was his Myra, and there was something _about_ the man. Renfield truly had kept his thoughts to himself. He watched the man, quietly. Noting. He'd never been so rude as to share his thoughts.

Until such time as Myra asked.

Asked. Whilst showing off... a... a _ring_.

The blinding panic that ripped through him for a simple rock on a piece of metal was still beyond Renfield to understand in himself. He hadn't been able to stop the thoughts from falling inarticulately out of his mouth, each word now seeming more cruel than the one before, and he didn't know how it was possible to feel so hideously guilty at the same time as he wanted fiercely to stand by the tirade.

He wanted to snarl the man away from his sister. He wanted to break every one of his fingers, he wanted to believe none of those fingers he would break had ever touched his sister in an untoward manner, and he wanted to hope that if he simply wished hard enough the man would disappear and everything would go back to the way it used to be.

His skates scraped the ice, but Renfield didn't hear them. He sniffed, surreptitiously wiping his face, even though he was alone.

 _Why are you doing this to me?_

At some point he became aware he was being watched from outside the rink.

His mother laid her hands in her lap and watched her son without comment. Renfield wiped his face again, refusing to look at her, though he tried to out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know what she would think. Surely she would be just as upset? An ally in this? Her expression wasn't one of indignation or anger. It was that quiet disappointment, a silent look of waiting for Renfield to come to a conclusion that was obvious to her but he knew he was meant to arrive upon on his own and learn something from the journey.

He wouldn't rise to it.

What did she know?

They waited each other out until Renfield's ankles ached and he was hungry. The journey home was silent; he refused to take whatever bait she believed she was throwing for him.

***

It was a stalemate.

Renfield missed Myra more as each day passed, but he couldn't make himself apologize. Why should he? He'd only told the truth. Everything he said was for her own good, it was to help her realize she was better than this, that she deserved better than that man and should be home with Renfield where she belonged.

It wasn't as though she lived at home, at age twenty-nine, but it wasn't the literal sense. She wouldn't speak to him until he apologized. He'd hurt her with what he said. Every now and again, that fact flitted past the raging certainty that he was right, and he'd curl up around the guilt in his gut and force himself not to cry.

Each passing day felt more and more like his world had simply ended.

His mother still looked at him sometimes with that expression like she just knew, like he was being a dreadful disappointment, like she expected him to suddenly fold and trumpet from the rooftop that it was perfectly acceptable for that man to be placing hands on his precious sister. He had the most encompassing need to tip his chin up to that look. To stare it down, to show her that if only everyone would listen to him they would see how unfair it all was.

Renfield had taken to picking up the phone, once every few days, to dial Myra's number. It happened when the guilt outweighed the certainty, and the ache where his sister should be covered everything so heavily that he thought he truly could swallow it and apologize just to have her back. Today was the first day he'd completed the digits.

" _...Turnbull residence, this is she?_ "

To his own eternal shame, he slammed down the phone.

***

There was little consolation to being right when one was alone.

This was not a thought Renfield had generally entertained before, as being alone had never been a problem before. For one, he'd generally been quite content taking up a minority opinion so long as it was right. For another, his definition of 'alone' had always included his sister. It was no different from being in solitude with a limb. One generally didn't think to define an extension of oneself as company.

Until it was gone.

Beside him or not, she was always a part of his life, and Renfield supposed it was mutual pride that kept them alone now.

He'd hurt her with what he had said. Her birthday had passed and he still had her present, wrapped and most often sitting on his dresser. He didn't know how, at this point, to go back. He didn't know how to walk through the wall of anger and pride to give it to her. It felt so thick. He felt weak and shaky at the thought of looking stupid and childish by crawling back. He felt alone and empty at the thought of not.

Renfield was drawing the curl of silver ribbon through his fingers, holding the box in his hands, when his mother passed by his bedroom door.

"You say: 'I love you, I'm sorry.'"

"--beg pardon?"

Mrs. Turnbull's ever-expectant look was there, and it softened a fraction as she curled fingers around the doorframe. She nodded at the present in her son's hands. "That's how you do it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She shook her head, half-grinning sadly. "She's your sister, Renfield. There's nothing you've done that you can't come back from."

"I haven't done anything, Mum. She-- he--" It was the first time Renfield had broken the silence about the whole mess to his mother, even, and he turned brilliantly red, crossing his arms across his chest. "--it's not... not..."

"...fair, dear?"

"No." Renfield didn't know why it felt like a defeat to say it. Maybe it was because he knew precisely what any of his family would say to that, wrong though of course they were.

His mother looked him over for a long moment before nodding to herself. Renfield stifled the urge to roll his eyes.

"Of course it isn't," she said eventually. Cryptically. Renfield got the distinct impression that she was leaving open precisely to whom the matter wasn't fair.

Renfield kept his eyes steadfastly on the foot of the bed.

He'd hurt Myra with what he'd said.

"How?" Renfield didn't know why he asked the question. Nor did he quite understand what he was asking how to do. There was an instant flare of defiance; a feeling as though he would shrug off whatever his mother said anyway, and he face grew hotter still for having shown even that much of a crack.

"'I love you. I'm sorry,'" his mother repeated. "You won't be the first to swallow pride to say that, Renfield, and you won't be the last."

He tightened arms around himself, glancing to her sidelong. He said nothing.

She patted the door frame and slipped away.

***

Days passed with Renfield considering those words. Most of the time, he dismissed them. His mother just didn't understand. Something like that just wasn't as easily done as it was said, and the concept of backing down now was humiliating.

The calendar seemed to lie to him. His sister's birthday present rested upon his desk. The time he should have given it should not have been so long past, and though he had no idea of the date that must have been set for a wedding he was determined could not happen, days inched closer to that, too.

His father had even joined the fray, so much as his father ever interjected into the younger family's affairs. Which was to say, he'd arched a brow after finally noticing his son seemed off after weeks. It must have been quite the epiphany, Renfield reflected.

"Renfield, is something the matter?"

"No."

His mother's eyebrow mirrored his father's, and while the man was generally guileless when it came to the younger family, he could read his wife very well indeed.

"Haven't seen your sister in some time. Good to see her getting out. That John fellow must be good for her."

Renfield was aware that, in popular conception, there came a time in every young man's life when he sees his father for a human being rather than a tall, invincible model of what it means to be a man. That time in Renfield's life seem to him to come and go in that instant.

It wasn't quite that he hadn't seen his father for a human being before, really. It was that he never realized the man was clearly an _idiot_.

His father appeared clueless to the pure vaporized rage currently seeping from Renfield's pores and into the air surrounding, but his mother could apparently detect it. Her eyes slid to her son. Waiting.

Renfield didn't disappoint. It was one of the few times in his life he actually slammed down a piece of silverware, and the first time he'd ever done so in the presence of other people. His chair screeched across the floor, the first step in what should have been a duly enraged exit, when another rarity cut through the process.

His father's voice. Scolding.

"Renfield Jacob, sit back down this instant."

He was shocked into wide-eyed gaping, staring at his father before looking back to his mother. She had only a brief head shake for him. Renfield's backside met chair, and he was, indeed, sitting again.

His father looked utterly baffled with Renfield's turn of behavior, and he was pointing; that long finger extended in Renfield's direction seemed loaded. "I haven't the faintest what manner of difficulty has gotten into you, nor why you felt the need to take it out on the silverware, Renfield, but I will not have it at my table."

Mouth open, Renfield didn't know whether he would have delivered an automatic apology or reminded the man that it was Renfield who had cooked the meal at _his_ table, but that finger ticked at him, and his mouth closed again.

Damnable bottom lip. How could his own face betray him? The muscle seemed beyond his control, lip trembling with the stunned wave of ache through him. No. It hadn't been often he'd heard that tone from his father. It hadn't been often he'd heard any tone from his father, but even so, the world felt even smaller still, in that moment.

Another one against him.

His father looked baffled again, though this time, it was the blinking panic of a grown man realizing that someone, especially a _male child_ , may be about to cry in front of him. It was difficult to find some private satisfaction in his father's clear discomfort when Renfield himself could not maintain command of his own lip.

"...Ah. Go-- do go-- ah-- see to yourself, then, Renfield." His father was turning rapidly red at the cheeks and the fluster was expanding by the moment.

It was a relief when that extended finger turned to an uncomfortable wave of Renfield away from the table, and he took it, even leaving his half-eaten meal there for his mother to clean up.

Some time later, when Renfield was nose-buried in a book on his desk refusing to cry, his mother gave him a single pat on the shoulder.

***

 _I love you. I'm sorry._

Renfield's refusal to cry had spotty success, but he would maintain. A tear here and there, in the privacy of his room, didn't constitute weakness and it most certainly was no admission of guilt.

Nobody understood this. He was starting to believe the man had wandered in to Renfield's life merely to steal everything precious in it, going so far as to manipulate his parents. His brothers, too; he was certain now that if he tried to enlist their help they, too, would have been taken in.

The present on his desk was taunting him as the days passed.

His father hadn't mentioned the matter since. He got the impression that his parents had discussed it. A discussion that had no doubt been condescending and eye-rolling and putting down Renfield's quite genuine grievance to hormonal fluctuations or some other such nonsense that meant they could go on ignoring the clear problem in favor of looking down upon him.

Brief discussions with his mother had been fruitless. She wouldn't listen.

It was infuriating.

He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a fit. No. No, that would just make matters worse. Just reinforce their silly condescension.

That prospect was even more infuriating. There could be no right answer. Everything he said was and would be picked apart and analyzed and turned back on him to show how adolescent and foolish he was, no matter how intelligent, well-thought out or damn well true it was.

Somehow it hurt even more when his mother had given up, hands up, and told him that if he was going to be that difficult, he could sort it out for himself.

It wasn't being _difficult_ when he was _right_!

The temptation to pick up Myra's birthday present and sail it through a window was powerful, but he didn't give in. Oh, no. Because even that simple display of anger would be examined by those damn disapproving eyes and judged to be another difficulty the likes of which could not be tolerated, and then where would he be? Wouldn't want to inconvenience anyone with the fact that some strange man had come along and taken his sister without anyone so much as batting an eye at how wrong that was.

 

And also because... because...

 

 

He _really wanted to give it to her_.

Somehow, all the sustaining anger melted away again to aching loneliness, and he coiled up around knees bent to his chest and sobbed.

***

The bus carried all sorts of people.

Big, small, variations upon color, gender, stature, class, and disposition. Mood. A patchwork group seated unevenly and headed in the same general direction. They had one thing in common.

There was a black hole of cold in the back of this bus, and Renfield was quite certain that every single one of those random people could feel it.

He'd been given a wide berth of several seats. As passengers boarded, looking for a seat in relative solitude, eyes fell upon him that looked quickly and uncomfortably away. Renfield was quite internally pleased about this. It was as though, finally, someone could see the mark events had left upon him and knew to keep away.

Everyone seemed to understand this.

Except this one.

"Hi."

The girl had dark hair, brown eyes, a book under her arm and apparently a lack of sense, if her non-reaction to his incredulous stare was any indication.

"...hello."

She held out a bag of potato chips. "Want some?"

Fighting off a very strange bout of deja vu, he shook his head.

She shrugged, settling back into her seat to munch away. Munch. Munch.

Munch.

"Terribly sorry, could you possibly eat more quietly?"

It was her turn to stare at him as though he were the strange one.

"No offense, it's just... ah..."

"Distracting you from the thundercloud pouring rain on your head?" She offered helpfully, gently as though in invitation.

"--beg _pardon_?" His tone was sharper than he'd intended.

"Nothing. Never mind." She gathered her things haphazardly to herself and moved a few seats ahead, leaving Renfield blinking at the ceiling as though the weather might change above it.

Renfield tried to put it out of his mind. The bus ride passed with his hands in his lap, tugging his fingers, and the woman didn't bother him again.

Anxiety swelled when he reached his stop, and he collected his bag and made to get off, not meeting anyone's eye. Not speaking, determined not to acknowl--

When he reached the woman's seat he looked down at her. For reasons he couldn't fathom, the words came unbidden: "I am sorry."

She blinked up at him.

He felt sort of sick. _My mood really was none of your business, you were quite rude to comment upon it, my tone was not uncalled for--_ "For... being short with you, before."

"It's... it's all right."

They had an audience, Renfield realized then; eyes of other passengers turned on them in curiosity. He turned red and nodded at her before making his way off the bus.

***

He wasn't sure why he'd come. Renfield held the object in his hand and stood outside the front door, willing himself to ring the doorbell.

He told himself that he could give Myra the present without losing any of his ground. He didn't have to come crawling back to bring over the gift. In fact, he'd be the better man for doing so; the one willing to overlook the stalemate in order to bring her a kindness.

It was very grown-up of him, he thought.

Still, he stood there, unable to press the button. He wasn't certain for how long. In the end he didn't have to. The door swung open in front of him, buffeting his hair and the ribbon curled on the top of the gift, and on the other side stood his sister.

"Renfield...?"

He'd hurt Myra with what he said.

Awkwardly, he stuck out the gift, offered it in lieu of words that he suddenly could not find and to dam the urge to bury himself in her arms.

Stunned, she took it gently from his hands, her expression cycling through several muted emotions that he was frightened to identify. She didn't even thank him. Just set it on the table by the door and looked at him, eyebrows up.

"I... I..."

She crossed her arms.

"You--"

No. Definitely not. One eyebrow was left up, now.

Renfield opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, and out poured another series of words more awful than the last. A list of the man's faults, of how poorly suited for Myra he really was, how he was too young for her and up to no good whatsoever and she should be at home and what good was getting married anyway? and why didn't anyone understand? and-- " _Why are you doing this to me?_ "

By the end of it, his voice had cracked, turned pleading and he hated the sound of it. Pathetic. He was pathetic.

Myra's arms tightened around herself. Her stare didn't waver, but her bottom lip did. Just once.

It shattered Renfield's heart.

He tried to breathe and discovered he'd forgotten how. Gasped once. Twice.

Somehow her arms had opened in time to accept the impact of a sobbing fifteen year old boy, and somehow they'd found the grace to wrap around him, too.

Renfield apologized. Over and over, _I love you, I'm sorry, I love you, I'm so sorry..._

At some point he knew he was being steered toward her couch. At some point he realized he was sitting down. He didn't feel any of those things.

He cried until he was asleep against her chest, and he didn't remember that, either.


End file.
